Depression

It bears down upon me, gnawing
at my scalp and cheek, this great
greyness, heavy with muscle
and grave slabs of fat.

It smothers my limbs, robs
air from my skin that was,
such a short time ago, inhaling
salty mist from the ocean's fringe.

Groaning, I try to stand but cannot
push against the density of rank fur,
and the greyness shifts, rearranges
itself, presses me deeper into

the spongey soil.  We lurch, sob,
tangled nail to claw, hair to fur, belly
to haunch, until our breath becomes
dark brown, full of acrid longing.
 

Copyright 1999,  Marilyn Mashburn Lewis
 

Marilyn Mashburn Lewis, a retired massage therapist, farmer, social worker and potter, doesn't get depressed all that often.  In fact, she recently won the Washington Poets Association's award for humor.  Her work has been published in numerous quarterlies.